


Someone In Brooklyn Misses You

by losther0es



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Past Romance, Past established Relationship, References to past life, This is a birthday present, not as sad as it could have been, this is slighty angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:11:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losther0es/pseuds/losther0es
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was like this: </p>
<p>Someone in Brooklyn Missed You</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone In Brooklyn Misses You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sloth_mccall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloth_mccall/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [有人在布魯克林想著你](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252327) by [abbabccd05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbabccd05/pseuds/abbabccd05)



It was like this:

 

Ripped envelopes, the stamps peeled off and stuck to a worn wood desk.

 

Messy sheets piled high on the bed. A dark gray quilt draped over one corner and the pillows smushed with the shape of two bodies in perfect form. 

 

A set of mismatched glasses sat in the sink, washed out but not put in the cabinet where they belonged. 

 

The cream colored mug sitting on the coffee table with the words  _ “Someone in Brooklyn Misses You”  _ scrawled across it in neat handwriting.

  
  


**

 

A thin layer of dust had covered the trunk of belongings that had been recovered from their hole in the wall apartment - even though you could hardly call it that - in Brooklyn. The trunk itself was ancient and creaked when it was opened. Not that it had been in about six months. It was hard to look back on a life that had been, could have been, shouldn’t have been. So the trunk sat in the back of a closet, in a guest room turned weight room turned studio. It held the smell of dust, stale cologne and coffee. Something that couldn’t invade the smell of turpentine and sweat. Not anymore. 

 

Steve wore the dog tags. They weren’t the originals, of course. Those were buried under 70 years of snow and rock. He’d had them made after his first year off ice. Three in total, two military grade and shiny. The third with the same words stamped into them. 

 

_ Someone in Brooklyn Misses You _

 

**

 

It should have been easier to open the trunk when they found him again. It should have been the first thing Steve did really, to try and at least jog the memories. But it sat in the closet still gathering dust. Bucky never touched it, but he hardly touched anything. He still felt intrusive, explosive and uninvited. He slept on the floor if he did sleep, not in the bed. He didn’t think he deserved that yet. He didn’t deserve anything that Steve gave him. The kicked puppy look was convincing enough. So he took the clothes, the gifts, the knickknacks. 

 

The memories came few and far between. Wisps of things from when he was a child, or when he was in the war. Or as the Soldier. He had a hard time trying to figure out what was James, Bucky or the Soldier. Steve always looked so proud when he would even open his mouth, that being enough motivation to keep sharing what he remembered. 

“We used to read a lot.” Bucky had said sitting at the table one morning. He held a warm mug clasped between his hands and Steve could hear the question, the hope for approval in his voice. It had startled him, the sudden break in Bucky’s ongoing silence. 

 

“I-Yeah.” Steve answered first. “I used to read to you. At night.” He’d added quickly. A small smile of satisfaction formed on Bucky’s face and it was such a  _ Bucky  _ expression that Steve’s heart constricted. 

 

Steve thought about the unreturned library books in the old trunk with dried flowers as the bookmarks. When Bucky would bring in a handful of whatever plant that caught his eye on the way home and he’d hand them to Steve with a gentle smile. 

 

_ “Gotta bring my best guy a gift every now and then.”  _ He’d tease. It made Steve’s weak heart hammer and he would always press the buds between pages of books. 

 

Steve pushed those memories into that same trunk, just glad to have Bucky here now. No need to get caught up in the past. That stayed in the dark, dusty trunk with everything else. 

 

**

 

Really, Bucky should get an award for his restraint. 

 

He’d seen the trunk at the bottom of his closet, not recognizing the peeling brown varnish until a month or so ago. It had clicked one night, that the trunk had been used as a coffee table in that piece of shit apartment in Brooklyn. It didn’t fit with the sleek and modern furniture in their studio now. Bucky sat up in the bed, flicking on the lamp and squinting at the trunk like he could see through it. Why would Steve have it? Surly all their shit from the old place had been trashed or put in the museum exhibit. Why would he keep the dumb old trunk? 

 

Bucky fought with himself for a moment if he should open it, look through what might possibly be kept in there, if anything. It was in his room for god sake and Steve had said anything here was his too. Why not look at what Steve might have been able to reclaim from their old place? 

 

He didn’t get out of the bed. He didn’t even consider looking through the trunk. While he may have the memories of his past life, he wasn’t the same. Not anymore. It would be like looking through frosted glass. Distorted and unfamiliar. So he flicked off the lights and curled back under the sheets. He wouldn’t open it, he wouldn’t let himself think about the could have beens. 

 

**

 

It was like this:

 

A shitty record player that stopped spinning if you didn’t keep an eye on it.

 

Warm hands on a skinny waist, pushing, pulling and not taking.

 

Long, blond eyelashes fluttering on sharp, pale cheekbones in the light of the moon. 

 

Parted red lips and half closed eyelids, fingers pressed into a bare mattress. The record player skipping in the background, a light breeze slipping through the half sealed windows.

 

**

 

Steve walked in perfect pace with Bucky. His hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans and his breath puffing out in front of his face. It was getting late and the street lights began to flick on, but Bucky had asked for a walk and his puppy eyes were getting much better. Steve really couldn’t say no to him, now could he?

 

They kept quiet on these walks, happy to be in each others company no matter what. It had been a good day for them. They’d had lunch with Sam and Maria. Bucky had laughed in a way that made Steve think of the “good ole’ days.” It was nice to see him adjusting to being a person again. Even if it wasn’t J.B. Barnes from Brooklyn. 

 

“The trunk,” Bucky spoke in a soft voice. “It’s the one from the shithole.” There was no question this time. It was pure fact. Steve stopped and looked at Bucky, the orange street lamps casting him in an  eerie shadow. Steve couldn’t trust his mouth to work, so he nodded instead. 

 

“Can I-?” He started before shaking his head. “I want to look. I want to try and remember that too.” His voice was more confident this time, chin jutted out like he used to do when he wanted his way. 

 

“Sure. Yeah, sure we can-Um...We can do that.” Steve said finally. 

 

**

 

It was like this: 

 

Stolen kisses in dark alleys.

 

Bloodied knuckles staining the dingy sink. 

 

Bruises from tongues and teeth and fists. 

 

Bitten and chapped lips chasing each other in desperate moments.

 

**

 

Bucky had stared for a long time at the contents of the trunk spread out on the plush carpet. Steve watched him, waiting for any kind of reaction. He’d read all the letters, traced his fingers over the covers of decaying books. There were shirts folded at the bottom, old and empty sketchbooks. A few newspaper clippings about baseball games, the war effort and two obituaries. The mug was wrapped carefully in a few unused bandages, the words chipping off seeing as it had been cheap paint and a cheap piece of dishware. 

 

Bucky said nothing, but he spent a lot of time looking at all the things Peggy went back and recovered from their landlord. 

 

**

 

It was like this:

 

The order papers sat on the trunk-slash-coffee table.

 

A box of new stationary tucked into the old desk.

 

A worn picture of two little boys with bright grins.

 

Every letter signed the same way. 

 

_ Someone in Brooklyn Misses You _

 

**

Steve figured he really couldn’t escort Bucky everywhere. He’d lived with him for a few months, had made friends with the team. He was allowed to go do things with whoever he wanted and whenever he wanted. But it still sat wrong when Bucky wouldn’t tell him where he was going at breakfast. 

 

“You aren’t my ma, Rogers. I can go out and do things like a big boy.” Bucky said sweetly, sipping on his coffee. 

 

“Was just try’na see what you were up to with Clint and Nat s’all.” Steve shrugged, flipping to the next page of his newspaper. 

 

“It’s a surprise.” Bucky answered, standing up from the table and putting his mug in the sink. He disappeared down the hall and into his room, returning about ten minutes later dressed in nice jeans and a black sweater. 

 

“Don’t miss me too much.” He winked. Steve scoffed and waved him out the door. 

 

**

It was like this:

 

Bed rolls side by side.

 

Fingers carding through tousled hair.

 

Kisses hidden in plain sight. 

 

Stars twinkling between canopies of trees. 

 

**

 

Bucky came back late into the night. Steve was curled on the couch - as much as he could be really. It was harder when you were well over six feet tall and 250 pounds. The ten o’clock news was playing in the background and there was an empty bowl on the glass coffee table. 

 

“How was it?” Steve asked politely, looking up from his book. 

 

“S’fun.” Bucky answered genially. “Gotta surprise for ya.” He dropped onto the couch, hands clasping around Steve’s book. 

 

Steve looked at him with furrowed brows, but it only made Bucky smile. He pushed up the right hand sleeve of his sweater, holding his forearm out for Steve to see. There in scrawled black ink were the words Steve had signed on letters, painted on that damn cheap mug and gotten stamped on a set of tags. In his handwriting. 

  
  


_ Someone in Brooklyn Missed You _ .

 

He surged forward and kissed Bucky senseless. All those years ago when he whispered the words before Bucky shipped out, how he always signed them. They’d been on his mind after seeing him in the streets of DC. 

 

“Told ya I’d come back didn’t I?” Bucky whispered, referencing the last letter before the serum. 

 

“Shut up ya damn sap.” Steve answered, trailing his finger across the tattoo. “Don’t miss you anymore.” 

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday steph


End file.
